


Reject

by Zoe13



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Big corporation au, Derogatory name calling, Graffiti, M/M, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe13/pseuds/Zoe13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The infamous graffiti artist, who calls himself the 'Reject', has been steadily gaining support from the people, followers who call themselves 'Social Casualties.' Reject has yet to be identified and has eluded the authorities time and time again. His works of art have inspired many to become more open-minded and to accept love in any form."</p><p> </p><p>Or, Hemmings Industries and Clifford Co. are butting heads over a highly sensitive topic- that of the acceptance of homosexuals. Michael Clifford spends his days as an enemy of the acceptance and his nights as a renowned graffiti artist who uses his art to challenge his own father's views- views that all, including Luke Hemmings, believe are also Michael's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reject

" _The infamous graffiti artist, who calls himself the 'Reject', has been steadily gaining support from the people, followers who call themselves 'Social Casualties.' Reject has yet to be identified and has eluded the authorities time and time again. His works of art have inspired many to become more open-minded and to accept love in any form_."

James Clifford turned off the television with a disgusted sneer on his thin face.

"These people are repulsive. This isn't art- it's damage to my property!"

His son calmly continued with his breakfast, eyes carefully turned away from the television.

"Where was it this time?" Michael asked his father. The older man angrily turned back to his meal.

"The athletics department building," he muttered. "There's no way to pinpoint where he lives- his pattern is totally random."

Michael surveyed his father's lined face, setting down his utensils.

"How close have they come to catching him?" he asked.

"Not very. They all seem to be extremely incompetent if one boy can escape them so easily."

"He's probably homeless," Michael said casually. His father perked up, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you can't pinpoint where he lives, so it's possible that he doesn't really live anywhere at all. Maybe he moves around every day. And as to the supplies, some homeless people actually obtain quite a fair sum of money. It's also possible that he somehow started a fund under his false name. He has many supporters."

James set down his fork and brought his hands together under his chin, mulling over the theory.

"It's possible," he said. "People will help out anyone who says they're a faggot."

The knuckles on Michael's hand turned white and his smile tightened, but his father took no notice.

"You're quite clever, Michael," the man said instead. "I'll have the authorities look into it."

James rose and left the room in a better mood. Michael sat there alone for a moment, staring out the large bay window with his jaw clenched. 

* * *

The uniform for Preston High was very strict. All students, who were strictly male, were to wear navy dress pants, black shoes, and a navy blazer with gold lining over a white shirt. There was also a matching tie that was either blue and gold stripes or simply gold. Hands and faces must be clean, no tattoos or piercings were permitted, and bags must be the signature messenger bag of Preston. 

Michael always arrived looking like the Preston poster boy, with his hair immaculately slicked down. He arrived five minutes early and sat near the front of the classroom. He was attentive and quiet in class, and always had the answer, which he gave only after his hand had been politely raised and he had been granted permission. He came alone, he sat alone, and he left alone.

Luke Hemmings was a different story. His tie was never straight and his shoes were often brown. His hair was kept up in a quiff and his bag always had papers and pencils poking out of the top. He arrived barely on time, was easily distracted in class, had a correct but strange answer to every question, and tended to shoot said answer out the moment he raised his hand. He came with a friend, sat with multiple friends, and rarely left without one or two boys accompanying him. He also never missed a chance to argue about one topic- the acceptance of homosexuality. He and several of his best friends were gay or bi and he never put up with any shit about it, especially from Michael Clifford, son of the man who had been labeled the number one enemy of homosexuals. 

Because of all of this, when Michael arrived one morning precisely five minutes early only to find Luke Hemmings alone in his usual seat, he was quite surprised. He took his own usual seat quietly and set his messenger bag beside him, careful to keep the Preston logo in the front. 

"Hello," he greeted politely when the silence became overwhelming. 

Luke, who had seemed ready to make some angry retort, looked taken aback. 

"Hello," he said, and it came out as more of a question. "Are you really alright with talking to a gay?"

It was a bit snide, and Michael felt a little ruffled. 

"I'm not the type to ignore problems," he said instead, trying not to wince at his own words. 

Luke looked completely affronted and Michael couldn't blame him.

"The only problem I see here is your judgement," the other boy told him. Michael continued to stare toward the front of the immaculate classroom.

"There is no error in my judgement- your lifestyle, however, is a different story entirely."

"You're an ignorance prick, you know that?" Luke said hotly, his cheeks flaming."

"Name calling will not get you anywhere."

"Neither will taunting," Luke shot back.

"It all depends on your approach," Michael said calmly.

Luke looked ready to argue, but students began filing in, giving the odd pair wary looks as they took their seats. Calum Hood gave Michael a threatening look before he sat next to Luke, but Michael seemed to take no notice.

It hurt every time.

* * *

It was a dark night that night. A figure standing near the east wall of a large building cast a long shadow behind him from the lamplight to his right. There were several spray cans at his feet. 

He was clad in dark blacks and blues, a loose hoodie sliding down his arm to reveal dark marks on his wrist. His hair was messy, some standing on end and the front covering his left eye in a fringe. His combat boots were unusually quiet as he stepped sideways to fill in more of the stencil, pausing every few minutes to shake or replace the can of paint. The only sound was the hissing of the paint being sprayed and a few cars in the distance.

Finally the boy pulled the stencil from the wall, throwing the large piece with the other segments that were lying nearby with a ladder. He took his last can and signed the art with the name _Reject_. Then he threw the cans into a bag, crumpled up the stencils, and picked up the ladder. In mere moments, the only sign that he had been there was the large writing on the cement wall.

It read, in black lettering, _"Love is the movement. It is too big to stop, too big to throw under your feet and stomp out. Resistance is futile. No matter how much hate you throw against it, love will win."_

 

 


	2. Social Casualties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the long delay between chapters! Life has been shit. I'll just say that and spare you the ugly details.  
> Enjoy!

It was precisely one o'clock in the morning when Michael woke up. He'd gone to bed at the usual time, ten o'clock, after bidding his father goodnight. 

Now it was time to get started. He changed into black jeans, a dark red hoodie, and his usual combat boots. He skipped the hair styling (though it was the best part of his disguise as it looked completely different than his usual hair) and instead pulled his hood up. The shadow of it partly obscured his face, but he still pulled out a small pot of dark red face paint and smudged around his eyes in a sort of mask. He pulled on fingerless gloves and then set about finding his supplies. 

He found the spray cans he needed and shoved then into his backpack, the right amount of each color and a small black one to sign his name. Then he grabbed his stencils and the magnet he used on his window so the alarms wouldn't go off.

Once out on the bit of roof protruding under his window, he pulled on his backpack, folded the stencils under his arm, and pulled himself up to the top roof. He ran lightly along it, stopping near the edge on the other side and swinging himself down to another protruding part of the roof. From there he could reach a fairly large tree branch that he stepped onto, grabbing a higher one for support. Then he dropped his stencils to the ground, climbed down, and picked them back up. Finally he took off running.

He always had a building and spot to work on already in his mind. Tonight he was headed for some office buildings that were fairly far out, and he knew he'd have to run to make it there and back in time. He'd take his car, but his father would notice someone leaving and entering the driveway. 

It felt like forever, but he finally got to the building. No one on that side of town took any notice of a teenager running around in the middle of the night with a backpack, so he was never accosted.

The security on the building was extremely loose- Michael easily climbed the fence and saw several security officers playing a game through a window. He smirked to himself and edged around the corner of the building, coming face to face with a large wall- his blank canvas. 

Making a quick circle of the area, he checked around for passersby or other security, but he saw no one.

It would be a quick job, which meant he should get home in time.

* * *

Michael was combing down his hair when his phone rang. Dropping the wet comb in the sink, he picked up the phone and smiled at the caller ID. 

"Hey mom."

" _Hey Michael! How have you been?_ "

Michael sighed. He hadn't seen his mother in years. She'd struggled with a drug problem in her past that had caused quite a scandal. She and Michael's father had split, but James had gotten full custody when he'd argued that she was unstable. She'd gone to rehab and was doing better, and she called Michael at least twice a week, but he hadn't actually seen her face to face in a while. 

"Tired," he settled for. It was, however, only a fraction of how he felt. He didn't want to bother her with it anyway, and involving her in anything illegal wouldn't be fair. "I wish I could visit you."

Karen sighed softly.

" _I know, Michael, and I'm so sorry. It's my fault. But once you're eighteen you can visit me whenever you like_."

"I will."

" _How is school going for you?_ "

"Same as always- I show up early and sit by myself."

Michael sighed and looked longingly out the window as he heard shouting and laughter. Some boys his age were walking down the sidewalk, bumping each other playfully and talking. He was hard-put to sound even as he spoke.

" _That's their fault, honey,_ " Karen told him.

_No, it's not. It's really not._

He'd never tell her that, though. He couldn't explain all of it and only part of it would make him sound like a terrible person.

He was in a way, though. All of the things he was supposed to say around his father- he was living a complete lie. He was this shell that was sometimes one person and sometimes another- the son of James Clifford or the Reject.

"I- I need to get ready for school. I'll call you soon."

" _Alright. I love you!_ "

"I love you too."

The boys outside were far away, but he watched them until they were out of sight.

* * *

"-do you think that the Reject is a teenager?"

Michael heard the hushed whispers and giggling as he slid into his seat. It happened every once in a while- he would do a piece that got special attention and everyone at school and anywhere else would speculate who the Reject was and why he was doing what he was doing. He was getting used to it.

"I don't know anything about him," Luke Hemmings said, "but he's a hero. He's really changing the world!"

"My brother changed his point of view because of the work," Niall Horan said from his seat near the back. Zayn Malik nodded in assent, leaning back and setting his boots on the desk.

Of all the days for their Maths teacher to be late.

"I'd love to meet him someday," Louis Tomlinson commented.

"I just wish I had his talent," Calum said. "I'd try to help him out, you know? I really hope he never gets caught."

Ashton Irwin smiled at his boyfriend. Michael turned away and tried to curl in on himself. He really didn't want to be noticed. Fortunately, the boys all seemed more interested in the Reject than trying to dissuade Michael from his supposed beliefs. He picked nervously at his sleeve, pushing down on the hidden gauze that covered fresh cuts from the night before. He straightened his notebook when it seemed a little off and glanced anxiously at the clock.

"I've been trying to figure out whereabouts he must live," Ashton said. "But it seems almost as if he's everywhere. It's entirely possible that he travels from one area to another, but there seems to be absolutely no pattern to it. He must be a genius. They can't premeditate where he's going to be."

"I wonder if he'll do anything before Clifford's big speech on the steps of the courthouse. It would be awesome." Luke grinned and leaned back in his seat.

"Sh...Michael's here," someone hissed, and suddenly everyone went silent, as if they'd only just realized it. Michael stared stoically ahead and pressed into his cuts to keep back the tears. He knew how his act seemed to them- it was only logical that they treated him that way.

But it didn't make it hurt any less.

* * *

Michael leaned cautiously over the ledge of the building, clutching a large rolled up sheet that was resting on the edge with two of its corners secured to the top. He pulled down his hood to obscure his face and double-checked his escape route to the next building.

Everything was in place including James Clifford, who was fiddling with his microphone in the short moments before his speech against gay rights. People were gathered around- supporters and those against it- and Michael saw Luke Hemmings in the crowd, glaring up towards James Clifford's face. He felt the same way. Elizabeth Hemmings was there also, the CEO of Hemmings Co. and James Clifford's greatest rival in the political war over marriage. She was standing proudly before the steps, as she looked ready for a fight. Michael smirked to himself.

Finally it all started. A man that Michael didn't recognize came up and gave a short explanation of who James Clifford was and what he was going to speak on. After that, Michael's father ascended the steps.

Michael had heard the speech being rehearsed a thousand times and was waiting for the verbal cue he had set himself. The artwork was simple today, just some words, but he knew it would have great effect if times well.

James began to speak. "The issue of gay rights has been a long battle," he began in his smooth voice. "It has divided many people- the audience here today is itself divided in opinion. Should a man be permitted to marry a man or a woman to marry a woman? I boldly and emphatically _reject_ this belief!"

A smile played on Michael's lips as he pushed the cloth over the edge of the building. It unfurled dramatically, blowing in the breeze as if wafted on the gasps of the audience. Shouts went up and James Clifford turned to stare almost comically at the flowing words behind him.

_We are the rejects._

_We are the social casualties._

Complete silence fell and Michael took that as his cue to depart. He stood as cameras went off like mad, some toward the roof of the building, some toward the cloth, and some toward James Clifford. He ran to the east side of the building and quickly swung down to the extended balcony below, landing nimbly on his feet. From there he clambered onto the wide stone rail and made the leap to a similar balcony across. He heard security shouting orders, but none had spotted him yet and he slipped into the building unnoticed.

Once there he quickly made his way to a restroom and stripped off the hoodie and combat boots, replacing them with a blazer and dress shoes. He left his black jeans and the white button down on as they fit the outfit. Then he double-checked his hair and swiftly exited the building, blending in with the excited crowd outside. 


	3. A Glimpse Of Friendship

Everyone was talking about the Reject's latest graffiti. Any debate it sparked soon turned one-sided, as if the words had somehow turned everyone articulate enough to argue their point until it persuaded the opposing person. The only person who seemed at all unaffected was Michael, who was sat in the cafeteria drawing something calmly and coolly while passionate words flew around him. 

Luke Hemmings was, of course, the center of attention. Michael sometimes felt as if he would one day cry 'viva la revolutión!' and lead the way to France with a crowd of admirers. Michael also wondered if he would feel compelled to follow- and he concluded that he probably would. There was something special about the other boy, no one could deny that, and the fact that Michael had to attempt to oppose him made his situation much more bitter- and also much more difficult. It was hard to defend something you didn't actually believe. 

The passionate ruckus finally became so loud that Preston High's principle himself showed up to demand peace and quiet in the building. Luke Hemmings sheepishly stepped down from the table on which he had been standing and seated himself, and the room immediately settled down to its usual dull roar. 

Michael continued to draw, mapping out his next work and calculating the amount of paint and time it would take. It was hard to ignore the laughter and pleasant chatter around him, though. He found himself looking around, watching the groups of boys with a longing expression. He could be seated there too. If it wasn't so vital to disguise that he was the Rogue, he knew he could make at least one friend. But no one at Preston wanted to befriend the close-minded and spoiled rich boy, the son of James Clifford. 

His eyes settled on Luke, and he watched the blonde as he spoke excitedly, gesticulating with his entire body. He could have made a good friend- would have, if only Michael hadn't tangled himself up in his father's web of hatred. He suddenly ached to join in the conversation, to say _yes, I agree,_ to say _my father's opinions are not my own at all_. 

Michael looked over at Harry Styles and wondered what it would be like to be friends with his group. They were always laughing, displaying the easy camaraderie that the teenager longed for. They got together with Luke's friends often to discuss or play music and Michael wanted to join in, to hear what they liked. 

A shadow fell across the table and suddenly Luke Hemmings was sitting across from Michael, smiling openly at him. Michael flailed and slammed his sketchbook shut before staring at the other boy in confusion. 

"...hello?"

"So, I had a question for you," Luke said to him, resting his chin on his hands, "and I don't want to offend you or anything, despite our differing views, so if you don't want to answer just tell me and I'll leave."

Michael stared curiously at Luke,  and the blonde seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. 

"What do you think of the Reject?"

Michael blinked once, then twice. "Do you mean of his work, his opinion, or the person himself?"

Luke shrugged. Michael tried to ignore the people who were failing to be subtle as they watched the two. 

"Any or all three. I'm just curious."

Michael chewed on his bottom lip, pressing a finger into his wrist. Luke watched the second action with a curious expression before looking back at Michael's face. 

"There are things about him that are to be admired," Michael said carefully. "He's avoided the police and his artwork seems to persuade most people."

"So...begrudgingly impressed?"

"Why are you talking to me?" Michael interrupted to ask. Everyone in the cafeteria who had been watching them suddenly turned around and began to talk to each other about separate topics.

Luke shrugged again. "I think you're interesting. Anyway, see you around!"

Luke stood and went back to his friends. Michael heard him whisper 'I think his mind could be changed' to Calum Hood, and for some reason that felt better. If Luke had faith that Michael at least might one day agree with them, then maybe they could eventually be friends.

Maybe one day he and Luke Hemmings could get to know each other. 

* * *

Suddenly Luke began to say hello. And goodbye. And then sometimes words would happen in between. Calum Hood and Ashton Irwin didn't partake in the greetings, but they didn't seem as cold as before. Michael wondered what had changed. 

Luke started to ask questions if he and Michael were near each other. They would have brief discussions (in which Michael's defense of his supposed beliefs got worse and worse) about their parents and the  rivalry between them and what they stood for. They were civil, and it was the closest Michael had gotten to a friend.

But there was still that barrier, the brick wall that was Michael's disguise. As long as he had that, he could never have friends. He found himself hanging on Luke's every word, though, desperate to be addressed by someone other than his father or paparazzi. The other boy had always been intriguing to Michael, and it seemed that the more he found out about him, the less he understood. 

It started to scare him a little. One night he stepped back to survey his work on a wall only to find that the eyes accompanying the art were the exact shade of Luke's- were, in fact, an exact replica that he had created unwittingly. He'd scrambled out of there, barely stopping to grab his things, and hadn't looked back once. 

He was beginning to think that maybe Luke Hemmings was on his mind too much. And that frightened him more than anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry about the long delay! I swear fate hates this fic. I keep getting distracted and busy and it sucks. I was up until three last night just studying grrr. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think! My thoughts are very disconnected at the moment, so let me know if you think something needs to be smoothed out.


	4. The Facade Slips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I have felt like total hell the past month. I don't know what's wrong, but one minute I feel a sickening sense of apathy toward everything and the next I care so fucking much about everything that I feel this strong need to change people and how they feel and how they act and to defend people who can't help themselves and comfort people who are feeling like I am and fuck this shit, I need my meds. I'm off them because I hated them but maybe they'd help. I don't know. I swear to god I'm going insane. 
> 
> Sooooo enjoy a chapter! Hahaha ugh

"That woman is unbelievably ignorant!" James Clifford scoffed, turning away from the television and flipping through a magazine. Michael found himself wondering why his father had left the television on a channel playing an interview with Liz Hemmings. The man seemed as if he liked to torment himself with things that he hated.

Michael shrugged it off, though, turning to the tv and soaking up words he desperately wanted to say himself. 

"- _it's not fair to deny someone else's lifestyle when you are allowed to live as you please,_ " Liz said calmly, and the interviewer nodded energetically. " _It hasn't really got anything to do with you anyway_ ," she went on. " _It's their life- why would you need to tell them how to live it? It's not hurting them, it's just different. I think that's what scares people- that they're different. That they dare to be something that not everyone else is. But they're still human, you know? If I have a preference for blonde men over brunette men it's not really a big deal. Having a preference for someone of the same gender shouldn't be either. Honestly, people_ -"

The screen went black. 

"Who does she think she is?" James fumed, tossing the controller onto the coffee table and glowering at the black television screen. "'Shouldn't tell people how to live their lives.' Isn't she telling them how to when she says 'be tolerant?' It makes me sick."

Michael stared ahead mutely, fighting not to speak and gripping his wrist tightly, focusing on the pain instead. 

"Why would we ever accept such freaks? It's disgusting. You know that. We both seem to have a better understanding."

Skin gave way under Michael's fingertips and he realized that his cuts were pulling apart, opening and creating gaps. He let go and stood quickly, hiding his suddenly bleeding arm at his side. 

"I should work on homework," he said, cringing inwardly at how lame the excuse sounded. His father fixed on him with an unreadable stare before nodding, and Michael practically fled the room. 

When he had locked his door, he couldn't help but pull out his razor and add to the damage. 

* * *

He was nearly late to school, and Luke actually seemed concerned. The blonde kept throwing him confused glances as Michael shifted in his seat and frequently checked his wrists, which were heavily bandaged. 

Michael tried not to think about the glances. 

He was mostly distracted by his wrists, however, which had reopened as he got ready for school and continued to bleed sluggishly throughout the day. Eventually he had to take off the bloody gauze and just wrap his arm in toilet paper, which he still changed out several times. He wasn't sure what to do, and he barely heard anything anyone said as he panicked, trying to come up with a solution. 

He found himself alone in the bathroom during history, sweating and dabbing at his arm. The blood wasn't even dripping, really, but hours of sluggish bleeding had made him weak. He was paler than usual and his breathing was shallow. He cursed his stupidity and debated looking up how to slow bleeding, but he didn't want to move his arms. 

After a while, though, he decided that he should clean it to avoid infection. Sticking his head out of the stall, he ensured that there was no one else in the room and then hurried to the sink and rinsed off his arms. His left was worse than his right and he washed it first. 

The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain, and Michael watched it with a bitter smile. Everything was so fake. Everything about his life was fake- even his real thoughts and actions were under a fake name. What was still real, other than the large cuts on his arm and the blood washing down the sink?

His heart jumped and then stopped as the door suddenly swung open without warning. Ashton Irwin entered, letting the door swing shut and smiling before he realized that Michael's arms were both in the sink and bloody. 

There was an awkward moment where Ashton stared and Michael looked down at his arms, face flaming from embarrassment. He shouldn't have left the stall, he shouldn't have taken off the bandages, he shouldn't have cut so deep...

He turned the sink off and fought the tears in his eyes, dabbing angrily at his arms as the cuts started to bleed again. Ashton jerked forward suddenly, catching Michael before he realized that he was swaying on his feet. The bloody tissue fell to the floor. 

"Hey, you need to calm down," Ashton said softly as Michael began to hyperventilate. He lowered the two of them to the floor and soothed Michael for a moment, completely disregarding the fact that they had never really even spoken with each other. Michael just let it happen and fought to regain control of himself. 

After a short while, Ashton pulled his arm from around Michael's shoulders and picked up his left arm, examining the cuts. 

"No hospital, I'm assuming."

Michael shook his head vehemently and Ashton sighed. 

"I understand. You should go home, though. There's a first-aid kit in here- I'll patch you up and you can go home and sleep for a bit."

"How do you-" Michael began to ask. 

"I did it for a few years." Ashton rolled up the sleeves of his blazer and held out his arms to Michael. White and pink lines ran vertically and horizontally across his wrists up to his elbows. Michael knew that if he stopped cutting, that was exactly how his own arms would look in a few months to a year. 

Ashton pulled Michael to his feet and smiled sadly at him before going over to a cabinet and pulling out a first aid kit. He wet a tissue and began wiping up the blood on Michael's arm. 

"The bleeding has slowed because you've calmed down," he said. "The faster your heart rate, the faster it pumps blood."

Michael nodded wordlessly and watched Ashton clean his arms. Finally Ashton threw the tissue away, carefully covering it with the other trash, and then began wrapping the gauze around Michael's arm, pulling it snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. 

"Do you want to talk about it? Maybe tell me why?" Ashton asked softly. 

"I- I don't know." 

"You don't know why?"

"I don't know what to say about it. Why are you helping me out?"

"Michael, it's what a decent human being does. I came in here and saw that you were struggling, and I wanted to help you, especially because it's something I did just a short while ago."

"But we-"

"Can disagree and still be friendly, Michael."

"Even after what my father says?"

"Your father?" Ashton taped down the gauze and stepped back to look at Michael. 

"He- goes too far." The words escaped Michael's mouth and he panicked, eyes widening. 

Ashton looked at him curiously. "Luke is really intrigued by you, you know."

"What?" Michael stared at the other boy. 

"He's trying to understand your point of view because he wants to convince you otherwise. I thought- I'll admit that I assumed you would be as difficult as your father, but you're much more reasonable. I don't mean to offend, he is just...very firm in his belief."

"It's not offensive." Michael sighed, not even caring anymore. "He doesn't state his beliefs politely or rationally. And- well, people are scared of me. Because they don't want me to, I don't know, judge them or drag them into a heated argument in which I ignore what they say and simply insult and offend everyone. I'm- I'm sorry."

Ashton watched him sympathetically. "You don't have to agree with him, Michael. You can make your own decisions, have your own opinions."

"I can't, because-" Michael shut his mouth with an audible click, suddenly remembering why he was in this mess. The Reject. "Thanks for the help but I- I have to go-" 

He tore past Ashton and fled the room. He needed to get home. 

* * *

The hand holding the spray can was shaky, and the Reject swore, holding it more tightly and trying not to let go of the stencil with the other hand. The white of the gauze on his wrists glinted in the light of the street lamp, and he flinched when he stretched too far. 

That day had been full of stupid mistakes. 

 

 


	5. Dangerous Territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep apologizing for how long I take to update, but seriously, I am so sorry.

Michael's hands shook and the stencil slipped, shifting to the side as he swore quietly. His lifestyle was taking a toll on him but he didn't know what to do about it. Lack of sleep paired with a waning appetite and frequent cutting was wearing him down, and he spent much of his nights running from cops and security guards. 

He righted the stencil and resumed spraying, coughing under his face mask at the smell. The paint wasn't good for him either, even though he did it out in the open. He sprayed the last bit and pulled out the small can of black paint, shaking it vigorously before opening it and signing the art. He stuffed the cans into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, assessing his work. 

He was arrogantly fond of it. He rarely found himself proud of his work, but this particular piece had worked out really well. It was minimalistic, as most graffiti was, and there weren't many colors. It depicted two boys with their hands intertwined, one half-hiding behind the second and looking toward the ground and the other staring defiantly ahead, left arm out as if to protect the first boy. Judging from the angle of their bodies and the intensity of the grip in their fingers, Michael figured it needed no explanation.  

Suddenly a light flickered and a shout rang out. 

"Hey! You, get away from there! That's private property!"

He left the stencil because he didn't need it anymore and took off, pulling his hood down further and running silently over the pavement. He heard two people shouting and their heavy footsteps far behind, and he figured that he could easily outrun them. 

He was running between a fence and the building he had graffitied, and he was nearly at the corner when a third man appeared ahead of him, shouting for him to stop. 

Michael turned and scaled the fence, blindly pulling himself up. At the top, he scrabbled for something to hold and felt acute pain in his hands as he accidentally grabbed the bared wire lining the top, puncturing his palm and scratching through his skin. He jerked back and fell over the other side, landing on his back and feeling the air rush out of his lungs. He gasped for breath. For several agonizing moments it wouldn't come, and he heard a gate swinging open nearby. Then the air suddenly filled his lungs and he shot to his feet, swaying and then taking off in a staggering run. He gradually grew steadier and lost the security guards before too long.

How long would it be until he was eventually caught?

* * *

Ashton smiled at him from the doorway and Michael didn't know what to do with that. He'd gotten to class at his usual early time, and now there was Aston, early and minus Calum for some reason. 

Michael was even more unnerved when he took the seat beside Michael and set down his bag. 

"How are you?" he asked Michael. 

"Fine." 

"We both know that that's not true, Michael."

Was it a pity thing? It had to be a pity thing. Michael clenched his jaw and sighed inwardly, flexing his hands and flinching. They were pretty painful, he had some deep gashes and puncture wounds and his back had a large bruise on it, but he was used to receiving various injuries from his escapades. 

Ashton's eyes followed his movements and he gasped quietly, taking Michael's right hand without actually saying anything. 

"What happened?" He asked finally. 

"Grabbed some barbed wire," Michael said without thinking, and then cursed inwardly. Ashton threw him off guard for some reason. 

"You really need to clean and cover these. Have you had a tetanus shot recently?"

"Yeah. I don't think it was rusty anyway." Michael looked down at his hands, unused to looking people in the eye. 

"Well, keep them clean and wrap them, please? They could get infected."

"I will," Michael mumbled, and Ashton stared at him for a long moment before releasing his hand. 

 The door opened and they both turned to see Luke enter. He looked surprised when he saw them sitting together, but after a moment he walked to the front and took the seat on the other side of Michael as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Michael tucked his injured hands out of sight. 

"How's your dad?" Luke asked him with a smile. 

"Fine," Michael said quietly. "How's your mom?"

"She's doing great! We have an event coming up soon, a sort of discussion dinner I suppose you could call it."

"My dad is going too," Michael said, and then suddenly wished he hadn't.  

"Maybe our parents could talk, then," Luke said. "They actually haven't spoken much for how big they are on opposing sides."

Michael shrugged and Ashton shifted a bit uncomfortably. Luke seemed to sense the discomfort of the two.

"I've been meaning to ask," Luke said, shifting topics, "do you play any instruments?"

* * *

Michael shoved his phone into his pocket and headed down the stairs. He'd just gotten off the phone with his mother, as he was trying to distract himself from thinking about Luke. It was dangerous territory, he realized that, even though they hardly knew each other. There was one thing dangerous about how the other boy made him feel and he didn't want to even go there. 

He closed the door to the music room behind him and pulled out the black bench of the grand piano. He sat before it, running his thin fingers over the pearly keys. His hands still hurt from the gashes and puncture wounds, but he hardly noticed as he began to play, shoulders bending over the piano and his hair falling into his eyes. It was a Nocturne and he smiled at the thought of the night, the only time he really felt himself. Sensing a theme of sorts, he launched next into Claire De Lune, swaying with the sweep of the notes and letting them carry away his stress and anxiety. 

 


	6. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE OMG KILL ME NOW
> 
> So for the past sixteen and a half years I have been crammed into a hole so to speak- a dark, quiet hole made up of children's movies and classical music. Then, I was given a phone when I turned sixteen and- well, doors opened. (So please pardon any ignorance of things I'm old enough to know about!)
> 
> Anyway, so I recently started checking out music. I've played piano for years, sung for years, and started guitar two years ago. I'm learning violin now too, though I'm teaching myself. So basically music is my life. Well, I've only recently discovered that it can be SO MUCH BETTER. So one direction appeared and plopped unceremoniously into my life. Then Coldplay. Then Imagine Dragons. Then more and more and more, and the past few months Fall Out Boy and 5SOS and Linkin Park have TOTALLY TAKEN OVER my life. To update even further, last week FOB introduced me to a band called My Chemical Romance. AND NOW A SASSY DIVA AND A UNICORN LOVER AND A WALKING FRO WITH A CUPCAKE STUCK TO HIS HAND AND A FIVE FOOT DUDE HAVE TOTALLY RUINED MY LIFE. 
> 
> I watched videos, I binge listened to music, I pinterest searched, I memorized lyrics, I watched the video about Gerard's battle with drugs and alcohol and most importantly to me, suicide (something I've considered). I found this amazing little place full of amazing people and amazing music and I found out Gee does fucking GRAPHIC NOVELS- and then it all crashed around my head when I found out (SEVERAL YEARS TOO LATE!!!) that they've broken up. It may sound ridiculous, but there seriously were tears. Helena is a banned song for me- I can't listen to it. And I absolutely LOVE Sing but I can't beat to watch the music video because they all die and then they broke up and it feels the same ugh I'm a wreck- is there anyone out there to comfort me and give me a crash course on being a fan?

Michael's heart sank as he looked over at table number three and saw Luke and Liz Hemmings seated there. Michael and his father were also assigned to table number three. 

James Clifford looked completely affronted at the mere suggestion, but surprisingly did not protest. His lips stretched into a thin and disapproving line, however, when he saw that his place card was at the seat next to Luke's. Michael sat down and tried not to hide under the table, especially when Luke smiled and waved at him.

"Faggot," James whispered under his breath to Michael. Michael clutched the edge of his seat and grit his teeth. 

When Ashton showed up in a suit and tie and took the seat on Liz's left side, Michael realized that they had been set up. Someone wanted an argument, and he knew that James also was aware of this and was struggling not to let them win. There were paparazzi everywhere, and the slightest wrong movement would be on video. 

Ashton smiled at Michael and looked ready to speak, but Michael threw a frightened glance his father's way and Ashton surprisingly read into it and nodded, looking concerned but not at all offended, something for which Michael was grateful. He didn't want Ashton hurt. 

"Good evening," Liz said eventually, politely but still with a hint of warmth. James didn't reply.

"Good evening," Michael answered with a polite smile, relieved when James still did not move. 

"Now, you go to Luke's school, right?" Liz asked Michael, her tight smile loosening some as if she had anticipated hostility and was genuinely pleased to find none.

"Preston? Yes." 

There was a screeching sound as James stood, pushing back his chair and storming out of the room without a word. Michael watched him go and felt lighter without his presence. The others at the table seemed to feel same way, the middle aged man across from Michael visibly breathing a sigh of relief.

Ashton stood and came around to occupy James's chair. 

"I'm Luke's plus one tonight," he explained his presence. 

"Platonic plus one," Luke added with a slight laugh. The sudden change in atmosphere between the three boys seemed to confuse Liz, but she didn't comment. 

"Did you bring anyone?" Ashton asked carefully.

"I don't have anyone to bring," Michael said simply, and Ashton looked sad but unsurprised. 

"Well," he said, "how's your music? You said you play the piano, right?"

"Yes, I do. And it's going well. I'd love to learn guitar someday, though." Michael felt himself emerging slightly from his shell and it wasn't as frightening as he'd thought it would be. 

"That would be awesome! I play the drums," Ashton laughed. 

"I play guitar," Luke chimed in. "It's amazing, you definitely should give it a try. Do you have other hobbies?"

"Not really. I'm usually doing homework."

"I'm trying to get into art," Ashton said. "Have you two ever tried?"

"Some," Luke said. 

"I tried, but never seemed to get good- it was truly awful," Michael said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

The topic swiftly changed, and he found himself more and more absorbed in the conversation, comfortable despite Liz's contemplative eyes boring holes into the side of his head. 

It wasn't until James returned that Michael realized he was huddled with the two other boys, Ashton's head near his cheek and Luke's elbow resting on his shoulder as he talked excitedly. Luke leaned forward slightly when Michael spotted his father, and the blood rushed from Michael's face. 

He had never seen his father this angry. All eyes and cameras turned toward their table as James strode up and yanked Luke back. 

"Keep your filthy hands off of my son!" he shouted, a hand curled in Luke's lapel. Luke glared at the older man and yanked his hand off.

"I was having a polite discussion with your son, something no one is capable of having with you!"

"I don't want any faggots near my son!"

Michael and Ashton shot to their feet simultaneously but Michael forced himself not to move further. Gasps echoed around the room.

"Why? Are you worried I'll _taint_ him by speaking to him?" Luke said disgustedly. 

James sputtered, his face turning red. For moment Michael thought he was going to storm back out of the room, but then he lunged forward, yelling, and hit Luke right in the face.

Screaming broke out and reporters began talking enthusiastically.  Luke staggered backwards, and Michael shot forward toward his father but was halted when Ashton grabbed him. 

"Michael, no!"

Liz screamed something at James and turned to her son, examining his swelling eye. Michael couldn't see Luke's face, but he felt a sinking sense of despair. Luke would never like him now. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, and Ashton stroked his hair for a moment. 

"It's fine," he said. "I'll tell Luke."

"Hands off!" James snarled at Ashton before pulling Michael away. Michael could do nothing but follow as his father pushed through the frantic crowd and toward the door. He kept looking back, though, fighting back tears.

It felt as if he was leaving his hope behind in that room, shattered at Luke's feet where Liz and Ashton were huddled protectively around him to fend off cameras.

* * *

 "What were you thinking, talking to them?" James snarled as the car made its way out of the parking lot. 

"I was trying to be polite-"

"We do what we have to- no more and no less. I've probably got a goddamn lawsuit on my hands now!"

"You didn't have to hit him!" Michael cried in protest. 

"What the hell, Michael?"

"We don't need a lawsuit," Michael tried to backtrack.

"Look, Michael," James sighed, suddenly calm. "I'm not stupid- I know you have no friends. But those boys are- they're disgusting. I don't want them to mess with you head."

"They don't-"

"So you're grounded. Except when you're in school, someone will be keeping an eye on you. Hendricks can do days and Johnson will be checking in on you during the night. I don't want you doing anything stupid."

" _What?_ "

"And I forbid any interaction with the Hemmings boy. Do you understand?"

"But-"

" _Do you understand?_ "

"...yes." 

Michael turned and stared out the window, cursing inwardly. How was he supposed to create any more art if he was being watched?

* * *

Michael ducked his head down as he hurried through the hallway at Preston High. 

No one had liked him before, but now everyone _hated_ him. Luke had shown up on Monday with a nasty black eye, and it was as bad as if Michael himself had given it to him. He'd been snarled at and pushed around for the past three hours, and he felt like he was going crazy. He hadn't seen Ashton, so he was probably avoiding him, and Calum was giving him odd looks. He'd completely avoided Luke's eyes. 

After history, he was reaching for his locker when it was slammed shut and replaced by another senior who was flanked by two other boys, none of whom looked particularly happy or friendly. Michael realized with surprise that no one else was around, and then noticed what was happening after the fist hit his face. He staggered back and discovered he'd been punched in the same spot James had punched Luke. 

"That's for Luke, you son of a bitch!" One of the boys hissed at him. The one on the left hit Michael in the face again before he'd recovered from the first blow, and his vision blurred, causing a dizzy spell that landed him on his back. He groaned but didn't get up.

One of them kicked him and then they were on him, hurling insults right and left. He didn't fight back. 

Somewhere along the line his left temple split and his lip stung. His cheek was bleeding too, but he still sat and took it. The first boy looked disgusted at his apathy towards the pain.

"Hey! Get off him!" Someone yelled. It was Luke. Michael was too dizzy to see well, but he knew the voice and felt the boy get yanked off of him.

"Get out of here before I slug your face," Calum's voice threatened. 

"But his dad-"

"Yeah," Luke interrupted, voice dangerous, " _his dad._ "

Gentle hands pulled Michael into a sitting position and leaned him against the locker. His vision slowly cleared and he saw Luke and Calum looking at him in concern. 

"What happened?" Calum asked.

"Payback," Michael said, coughing. Fuck, his chest hurt. "Wanted me and Luke to match or something."

"All I got was a black eye," Luke said angrily. "Your face is bleeding!"

"It's not that bad," Michael shrugged. His hand moved of it's own accord and reached up, gently touching the dark bruise around Luke's eye. Luke leaned into the touch and Michael's brain caught up, forcing him to drop his hand. 

"I'm fucking pissed," Calum said. "Three on one is pretty damn cowardly!"

"What hurts?" Luke asked anxiously. His eyes were wide and searching as he scanned Michael's body. "The cuts on your cheek and temple look shallow but they're still bleeding."

"My- " Michael coughed. "I think my ribs and chest are bruised. And my head fucking hurts." The swear word surprised him- he rarely swore aloud.

"Come on, we're going to see the nurse."

"Oh my god!" Ashton came tearing down the hallway. "What the hell _happened?_ " 

Niall was behind him and the two skidded to a stop near them, Ashton kneeling down and looking Michael over. 

"A couple of guys got mad about Luke's face," Calum explained briefly. "We're taking him to the school nurse."

"You take one side and I'll take the other," Luke said, and before Michael realized what was happening, they'd both slung his arms over their shoulders and pulled him to his feet. 

Ashton was fluttering around anxiously, asking Michael about where he got hit and how hard. Niall looked extremely sympathetic, and Michael had no idea how to feel about it all. 

"I thought you'd be mad," he said when they were halfway to the nurse's office.

"Why the hell would I be mad?" Luke asked him, looking genuinely surprised. "You didn't hit me. As Ashton told me you had apologized for your dad, which was enough for me."

"And Ash said he had to physically restrain you," Calum added. "No ones angry here."

Michael felt all the worry rush out in one swoop. As long as they didn't hate him, he could bear going home and facing his dad. 

He felt almost...loved as the four boys helped him to the nurse's office, stopping every few steps to check if he was alright and reassuring him that they weren't angry. It was odd, but he loved it.


	7. The Unmasking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it bad that I appreciated the support about MCR so much that I don't even mind the total disregard toward the actual chapter I had posted? Hahaha you guys are the best! And sorry if I accidentally replied to the wrong comments- there was something whacky going on with the setup. I think I've figured it out now, though. Enjoy!

Michael sat facing the window, staring down his own reflection that was barely visible in the darkened glass. The moon was bright tonight and he knew this was going to be his most difficult piece. 

He'd barely completed the stencil without being caught, and he'd had to scrounge up old paint because he couldn't buy more at the moment, but he'd made it work. It had to work. This was his grand apology and his greatest defiance toward his own father, whether or not anyone knew.

The door swung open and James entered, dressed in a black suit and silk tie, his greying hair slicked back. Michael glanced at him in the reflection of the mirror and then stubbornly avoided looking at him.

"Michael," James sighed, standing by him and resting a hand on his shoulder heavily. "Are you sure you won't come?"

"I thought we were honest people," Michael said, as even though it was extremely hypocritical of him to say, he still felt as if he had the moral high ground.

James was heading to a charity event he was hosting. He had invited the Hemmings', and Michael knew it was just a cover-up, an attempt to save face. And it made him angry. He had flat out refused to attend.

"I honestly regret hitting the Hemmings boy."

"But it's only because of the negative feedback. And you don't actually care about what organization you're funding."

James frowned. "You don't even know what organization it is."

Michael scoffed. "I know that you don't care."

"What's happened to you? You used to be so..."

"Compliant? Agreeable? Hitting people isn't right!"

"Look at yourself!" James shouted, his face twisting in anger before he breathed deeply and schooled his features. "Your face is still bruised and cut and you're having trouble walking."

"Because you hit Luke."

Michael jerked away from James' grip and James clenched and unclenched his fingers before dropping his arm. 

"I'm hoping to catch the Reject tonight," James shifted topics. "This is just the sort of thing he would show up to. We've got security all over the front and patrolling the back. And I can take care of it myself if I catch him."

He patted his hip and Michael's eyes widened as he realized what James meant. He had a handgun strapped to his belt.

"But you can't-"

"If he's trespassing and it's at night, I believe I have my rights," James said calmly. "I thought you'd be happy."

Michael tried to calm himself down as he turned and looked at his father.

"Please, just don't get into trouble," he said.

James' smile was genuine. "I'll see you in the morning, son," he said, and then he was gone. 

Michael fell on his hands and knees and fought to breathe. He struggled for a few moments before he sat up and pulled on his wrists, the pain of reopening cuts piercing through the fog of panic.

He had to do this. He had to make things right.

* * *

Michael looked over the fence, hoping the shadows were hiding him well enough. Fortunately there was no barbed wire, and security took a while to make the rounds to the back wall. Michael calculated that he should have barely enough time to get it done. 

As soon as the guard disappeared around the corner, Michael sprang into action. The fence wasn't that tall, and he dropped his bag and the stencil over it. Then he rested the ladder against the fence, climbed to the top, and- with much pain and difficulty- pulled the tall ladder over and set it on the other side. 

He climbed down, his feet slipping and his side protesting, and set the ladder up, hauling up the stencil. 

The stencil was made of lightweight paper, and he ducktaped the top corners to the brick, letting it unfold and settle. Then he pulled it taut and ducktaped the bottom. 

He ignored the pain in his side as he began to fill out the stencil, moving swiftly but carefully.

It felt like hours when he finally finished, his heart pounding and his forehead sweating. He pulled away the ladder and hurriedly signed the art, his hands shaking.

It was undeniably Luke, a look of resignation on his bruised face. It made Michael cringe as he looked at that dark spot with guilt.

And then several spotlights flared to life. 

"Back away from the wall!" Someone shouted. Michael suddenly felt sick, the hood doing nothing to keep the lights from blinding him. There were two guards on his left and four on his right, and he felt like a cornered animal as he glanced wildly about for a way to escape. 

"Put your hands up!" One of the guards yelled, but Michael barely registered it as his blood pounded in his ears. He felt nauseous.

Then a crowd of people poured in, James Clifford at the front.

"Finally!" he yelled. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet _the Reject!_ " 

Gasps went up and many eyes turned to the graffiti. Michael saw Luke in the crowd, and the other boy's face was full of shock. 

Michael suddenly felt that Luke couldn't know who he was, that he could never know Michael had done that painting. It was too obvious, it revealed too much.

"Take off his hood, Harrison," James ordered. The crowd seemed to be full of mixed emotions, and some protested when they heard James. 

Michael's hands shook with adrenaline and desperation, and he suddenly took off, sprinting toward the two guards on the other side, hoping to break through them.

A gunshot sounded and everything stopped. Michael's feet tangled and he fell, slamming into the ground. For a moment he didn't know why, but then agonizing pain collided with his senses and he screamed silently into the dirt. People were shouting, and he heard running and shuffling, but all he could see was the sky as he rolled over onto his back, gasping and digging his fingers into the dirt beside him. 

"Oh my god. He's bleeding!" It was Luke's voice, and Michael held onto the sound. "Someone call an ambulance!"

"Where is he bleeding?" Someone asked in a panicky voice. 

"His side-" something pushed onto the wound and Michael cried out. His hood fell back and Luke startled backwards, utter shock written all over his face. " _Michael!_ "

Tears filled Michael's eyes, as he didn't know if it was the pain or something else. They dropped down his face and smeared the dark smudges around his eyes, blurring his vision of Luke's panicked face.

"Luke-"

"No, stay still."

"Luke, I'm...sorry." Michael gasped as the pain spiked. "Oh god- I'm sorry...sorry I lied-"

"Shut up," Luke said harshly, even though he was crying too. "What'd you do it for? You should have stayed home!"

"I was- " Michael's eyes started sliding shut. "...make things...right..."

"Michael!" James Clifford stared down at his son in shock, struggling against the two men who were holding his arms. "Let me go! This has to be a mistake!"

"James," Michael coughed, any love he might have had for his father leaking away and leaving only pity. "You're just...miserable." He forced his eyelids open and stared at his father, though he was wincing from the pain. "I...I forgive you."

"Back. _Off!_ " Luke snarled at the man. Michael cried out in pain and Luke's attention quickly shifted back to him. 

"Luke.."

"God, Michael..."

"Got it...the second time," Michael coughed out harshly. Luke's laugh was weak.

"No, no, keep your eyes open, Michael-"

Liz knelt by Luke. "The ambulance is almost here."

"What the hell is taking it so long?" Luke cried. "Michael, hang in there, _please!_ " 

Michael absently wondered what the headlines would look like the next day. _CEO of Clifford Co shoots and kills son_ sounded pretty bad. 

Maybe they'd put up his last piece. Maybe his apology would be enough. Maybe-

Maybe he should sleep. The pain was fading out, blurring like his vision. With the last of his strength, he reached out and grasped Luke's hand.

" _Goodbye_..."

"No!" Luke's face was absolutely devastated. "No, Michael, I can hear them coming, just a little longer-"

Dark.


	8. James Clifford's Memento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am so so sorry about the long delay. I dislocated my thumb, and I shoved it back in place right away but they made me tape it up for a bit, and since I do all my writing in my phone, I couldn't type anything up :( 
> 
> My week has been hell. Friend got jealous about her boyfriend and started talking smack about me and my siblings to some people we really respect. Fortunately they seem to understand that it's a stain on her character and not ours, but it's still disappointing and hurtful. So done with people. She also gave me a lecture on the music I listen to, saying it was too depressing, so I put my headphones on and listened to music while she was trying to talk. She's trying to act like we're the only immature ones and as if she's better just because she's older. She gives us rides sometimes and basically said we're a charity case. Thought we were friends, but I guess not. 
> 
> How have your weeks been? Feel free to share good AND bad if you want. I want to know how everyone else is faring.

Michael's hand hovered over the remote indecisively, before he gave in and turned on the television. 

He'd been in the hospital for two days. He'd refused any unnecessary visitors, and since he'd been shot the only people he'd seen were policemen and doctors. 

His dad wasn't charging him with anything, and Michael declined the request to appear in court against him. He never wanted to see him again, under any circumstances. He had no idea what was going to happen to him, and his initial feeling upon first waking up had been disappointment. Luke and the others surely hated him now, and his father was as good as gone. He had no one left in the world. 

The television flared to life and Michael saw his own face on the news channel. 

" _Nothing has been heard from Michael Clifford since the incident, but we have been informed that he's healing and is expected to make a full recovery. For those of you who don't know what happened, here's some footage._.."

The camera was a handheld and the view shook slightly, but Michael could still see and hear quite well. He was in the background, partially obscured by his father, who announced the Reject's presence. The camera turned to the artwork and then suddenly whirled back as the gunshot sounded. Michael flinched as he saw himself fall, and he heard the familiar screaming as the camera was rushed forward. 

It was like reliving a nightmare, and he found himself watching in horrified fascination. There was Luke, rushing forward and dropping by his side, and Liz Hemmings clearing a small space around. 

He flinched again as his hood fell and people in the crowd started talking excitedly. All he saw was Luke's face, Luke's horrified and terrified face. When the other boy started crying, Michael fumbled for the remote and shut off the television, fighting off a panic attack. It was too hard to think about it, too overwhelming to remember it. 

The door opened and Michael started in surprise as Karen Clifford walked in. 

"You shouldn't watch that, sweetheart," she said, shutting the door behind her. 

"Wha-"

"I heard it through the door," she explained, sitting in the chair by the bed. "I think I've memorized the whole video, I've seen it so many times." 

"I'm sorry," Michael said weakly. 

"Don't be. I understand."

"You're not...mad at me?"

"The person I'm fucking pissed at is your father, but that's nothing new."

"I don't want to sound rude," Michael started, "but- why did they let you in?"

"Your custody was taken away from your father and I'm the next closest relative. After a background check and after they viewed my rehab release form, they signed custody over to me."

"I'm gonna- so I'm gonna live with you now?" Michael asked hopefully. 

"Yes, you're going to stay with me now. At least until you're eighteen- longer if you want."

Michael bit his lip to keep back the tears and then gave his mom a watery smile. She smiled back at him. 

"I was so worried," he confessed. "I had no idea what I was going to do..."

"It's going to be okay," Karen promised. "We can start afresh, right?"

"Right," Michael said with a stronger smile. 

Karen's eyes dropped to his bare arms and she frowned. 

"Sweetie...when did this start?"

Michael squirmed under her sad but unsurprised gaze, feeling awkward.

"When I realized I was gay?"

"Michael, that was five years ago!"

"I know, I'm sorry." Michael buried his arms under the sheets to hide the offensive scars.

Karen sighed. "I'm not angry, Michael. At least not at you. I'm angry at myself for fucking up and making them take you away. But it's fine. Like I said, we're starting anew."

"Okay," Michael said quietly. 

"There's a boy outside," Karen said. "He and some others have been out there as often as I have, even though you won't let anyone in. I said I'd talk you into letting one in."

"Mom-"

"Michael, they're worried about you. You don't want to lose any friends you have, do you?"

Michael sighed. "Fine, I'll see one. I just can't see this going well."

"I can't see it going that badly," Karen said. She stood and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. "I'll drop by later, okay? We'll catch up and talk about when you'll be released."

"I love you," Michael said when she reached the door. 

She turned and smiled. "I love you too, Michael."

And then she was gone. Michael buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply before dropping them into his lap. 

Then the door opened and Luke was walking in shyly, rubbing his arm and looking at Michael. The door swung shut and the sound felt deafening. 

Michaels throat caught and nothing would come out. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking down at his lap. 

Luke took the chair next to him. "How are you feeling?" He asked softly. 

"I-" Michael cleared his throat. "Sort of shitty."

"I can imagine." Luke was looking him right in the eyes and Michael felt awkward. 

"I'm sorry," Michael said after an awkward silence. "I shouldn't have painted you without asking."

"You- you were worried about that?" Luke asked incredulously. "The painting was amazing, Michael. Why would I be upset?"

"I don't know." 

"I'm just glad you're okay."

Michael met Luke's eyes and Luke smiled weakly at him. 

"I-I think I am too," Michael said.

"Good, because you really freaked me out there with all that goodbye shit," Luke said, and he looked upset again. "I thought- well, that maybe you..." 

He trailed off.

"I'm going to stay with my mom," Michael swiftly changed the subject. Luke nodded.

"She and I talked about it. Will you still go to Preston?"

"I think so. She lives pretty close to it." 

Michael dropped his eyes again and sighed. When he looked up again, Luke's eyes were full of tears.

"Luke, what-"

"It's my fault, isn't it."

"Why would it be your fault?" Michael asked, utterly confused. 

"Your dad- he was angry about you talking to me, and then he saw the painting- he shot you because he was angry about me, didn't he?"

"I-" Michael was at a loss for words. "Luke, I think he always intended to use any methods to bring me- to bring the Reject down. He was mad at me personally about you, but he didn't do anything to me because of it. I don't think he would have shot me if he'd known it was me."

There were still tears on Luke's face but he looked relieved. "I've felt so guilty these past couple of days. Ashton said I was being stupid, but- Michael, what is _that?_ "

Luke's gaze dropped and he stared at Michael's arms. Michael cursed inwardly at his own stupidity and scrambled to cover the cuts. 

"It's nothing, just left over from...the other day."

Luke grabbed Michael's closest arm and pulled it out, examining the neat rows of deep cuts.

"This wasn't an accident, Michael," he said darkly. 

Michael pulled his knees up to his chest and turned away, letting his arm fall limp in Luke's grasp. Tears pricked at his eyes and he drew in a shuddering breath.

He felt gentle touches on his wrist and turned to see Luke running his fingers gently over the scars. 

"I'm sorry," Luke said softly. "I didn't mean to sound angry."

His other hand gripped Michael's, their fingers lacing together as if it was a natural action. 

Michael dragged his eyes away from their hands and met Luke's, his own widening at the look on Luke's face. Luke looked positively _torn_ , his expression pained. 

"All those years, Michael. Weren't you- you must have felt so _lonely_. And we weren't exactly kind to you."

"Don't say that, Luke." Michael frowned. "You and Ashton and all the others- you were nicer to me than you should have been. Whether it not it was the real me, what you saw wasn't exactly likeable."

"I didn't dislike you." Luke's expression was honest. "You looked like you were struggling, and I didn't think you _really_ agreed with your dad. I thought that maybe I could get you to change your mind."

"Well if I hadn't already, you would have gotten me to."

"Yeah?" Luke smiled. 

"Yeah. You can be persuasive sometimes."

"Well," said Luke, "could I persuade you to not hit me if I try something?"

"It would depend on what you tried," Michael said. Luke grinned and stood to sit on the edge of the bed. 

"Just don't hit me in the eye. It's still a little tender."

Michael's retort caught in his throat  as Luke's expression turned serious before he leaned in slightly. 

"Seriously, though. Just- stop me if I go too far."

"Wha-"

Michael stopped as Luke swiftly closed the gap and pressed their lips together, a light touch that tore a gasp out of Michael. He moved to lean away but Michael's hands flew up and caught him, wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him in to kiss him again. He felt Luke smiling against his mouth as he shifted and pushed his hands into Michael's hair, tugging slightly.

When they finally pulled apart, Michael couldn't keep the stupid smile off of his face. 

"I've wanted to do that for a while," Luke admitted.

"Me too," Michael laughed breathlessly, and Luke's smile widened.

"Good," he said. "I think I'll do it again, then."

Michael laughed again as Luke pulled him in.


	9. The Real Michael Clifford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thanks for hanging around. I'd like to apologize for the length of time between posts and the long rants- this year and the last one have sort of gone downhill. 
> 
> I'm working on an MCR fic, but it may be a bit before I upload it if I make it a long oneshot.

When Michael awoke the next morning, Ashton was sitting by his bed.

"A little creepy," Michael said, his voice scratchy from sleep.

Ashton didn't smile. Instead, he crossed his arms and gave Michael a level stare.

"You know how I got in?" he asked. 

"No?"

"The hospital makes you renew your no-visitors request every week, and you forgot."

"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I needed time to think. And I didn't think anyone would show up, except maybe my dad if they let him for some reason."

"You didn't think I'd come?" Ashton's face softened. "Look, I get it. And I'm mad, but it's not really at you. I should have known your dad was psycho the second he punched Luke."

"Is everyone determined to blame themselves?" Michael asked.

"It's what you do," Ashton said. "I can tell."

"I only say what I believe," Michael said, then flinched. "About- never mind. I guess you probably don't know what to believe."

"I wondered if you had already changed your mind," Ashton told him gently. "And I was pretty sure you had a thing for Luke, so I knew some of it. The Reject part I never would have guessed."

"You knew about Luke?"

"I said I was pretty sure," Ashton reminded him. They both turned as the door opened. 

Calum entered with coffee and handed one to Ashton. "Hey babe. How are you feeling, Michael?"

"Um." Michael still felt shy around the other boy. "Anything I say will end up as a flat joke."

"Such as..."

"I don't know, 'I feel like I got shot?'"

Ashton frowned. "Yeah, not funny."

"Do you like hot chocolate?" Calum asked, offering a cup to Michael. "The nurse said no coffee cause they're still worried about your heart."

"Yeah, thanks." Michael reached out and took the cup. Calum's eyes landed on his mutilated wrist and he looked sad for a moment before his eyes met Michael's and he smiled. 

"Your art is incredible," Calum told Michael as he took a seat. "Everyone at school thinks so. Also those guys that beat you up? They're not very happy with themselves." 

Michael sat up more and crossed his legs, sipping the hot chocolate. 

"What happened?"

"Have you ever met Gerard? He does a lot of art and he's really into your work. When he heard about them beating you up, he gave them a pretty harsh verbal beating. I don't think they understood half of the words he used."

"Is he the one that broke code and dyed his hair red?" Michael asked. Calum nodded. "Well how did they take it?"

"Not too well," Ashton out in. "One of them took a swing at him and got beat up by his boyfriend. Who is, by the way, about five foot."

Michael cringed and then laughed. "I wish I had been there."

"It was pretty great. You're basically Harry Potter at school now- it's been crazy since then. People are putting up posters of your art all over the hallways and classrooms. Someone drew the one of Luke on the Maths classroom chalkboard. I've never seen Luke blush before."

Michael felt himself blushing.

"Everyone's glad that you're okay," Ashton said seriously. "I hope you come back, even though I know Preston wasn't a great experience before." 

"It was understandable," Michael said, and Ashton just shrugged. 

"Just so you know," Calum said, "I liked you before this. We're not, like, trying to befriend you just cause you're cool now or something. Or just cause you're dating Luke."

" _Calum_ ," Ashton hissed. 

"Damn." Calum frowned. "We sort of weren't supposed to know that."

"It's fine," Michael told him, and it was true. "I'm just glad you seem fine with it."

"I was kind of rooting for it from day one," Calum grinned. "When Luke first went and talked to you and then told us he thought you'd come over, I kind of just saw something different. I don't know."

"Well thank you for your confidence in me," Michael said. "I think it's time I got myself more of that."

* * *

Karen waved as Michael shut the car door. 

"You'll be fine, honey," she told him. 

Luke came up and waved. "I'll keep an eye on him, Karen," he promised. She smiled widely at him and pulled out of the parking lot.

"I'm nervous," Michael said, though he didn't let it show as he looked over at the paparazzi hovering at the edge of the school grounds. Luke reached down and grasped his hand, linking their fingers together. 

"You'll be great. This is Preston. If you need people to back off, tell them and they will. If they won't, find me."

"Or Gerard," Michael giggled. He spotted the boy himself a bit ahead of them, his hair still bright red. He was wearing large sunglasses and he tipped his head in Michael's direction before heading into the building, his boyfriend following closely behind.

"Or Gerard," Luke agreed with a smile on his face. "Maybe you two should talk about art sometime."

"You're just trying to make me make more friends," Michael said accusingly. 

"Broaden your horizons!" Luke told him. Then his expression turned serious. "You can talk to me about this any time," he said, motioning to Michael's arms, "but if for some unforeseen reason you can't or if you feel like I just don't get it, Ashton does. He gets it. And Gerard wanted me to tell you that he does too."

Michael turned and wrapped his arms around Luke, burying his face in his shoulder. 

"I know it'll be hard for you," he said.

"But it's worth it," Luke said softly. "You're worth it."

He tipped Michael's head up and kissed him before tugging on his hand. 

"Ready for your first day back?" he asked. 

Michael followed the pull toward the building. 

"Is anyone ever ready for highschool?" he answered. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo new story, new universe, blahbahblah. I would absolutely LOVE to hear from you all, so please feel free to leave comments in the comment section!


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